Sticks and Scones
by OceanTiger13
Summary: Space: the final frontier. These are the voyages of the starship Enterprise: its continuing mission to explore strange new worlds, to seek out new life and new civilizations, to boldly munch what no one has munched before. A trilogy of food-related adventures, one for each member of your favorite triumvirate.
1. The Brownie Incident

**Sticks and Scones**

A/N: While I am the keeper of a pretty solid scone recipe, regrettably, I do not own _Star Trek_.

T essentially for language-I've been ladling out the angst lately in my other stories and wanted something a little more lighthearted.

* * *

 _Part 1: The Brownie Incident_

 _Stardate 2260.289_

Christine Chapel was a goddamn professional.

Leonard McCoy accepted the mug she was offering him and mumbled something tired and grateful. He'd already forgotten what kind of tea she'd said it was, but it hardly mattered. He took a sip and promptly burned his tongue as Chapel turned her attention to Jim.

Overhead, the lights of the observation post's tiny medical clinic flickered dangerously. McCoy glanced up, then back to find Chapel looking at him. "That's normal," she said with an amused smile. "The generators get finicky during the storm season."

McCoy took another, more careful sip of his tea—something light and herbal, he decided. "Uh huh," he replied, unconvinced.

He'd heard horror stories about the poor state of medical affairs on the outer rim planets. He couldn't decide if they were rumor, or if Chapel had just busted her ass to get this particular clinic up to scratch. The latter wouldn't have surprised him. During the eighteen months they'd worked together before her transfer, she had disagreed with him loudly and often, and she'd proven herself plenty capable of standing her ground.

Outside the wind howled through the trees and a torrent of rain slammed against the clinic's thin windows. McCoy took another sip of his tea, refusing to let the phrase _I told you so_ bring a smile to his lips. He was still plenty pissed.

Having set Jim's wrist, Chapel was now numbing his arm from the elbow down and stuffing him into a seat next to the regen unit. "This is gonna hurt like all hell when the anesthetic wears off," she said, "so get Leonard here to prescribe you painkillers when you get back to the _Enterprise_."

Jim glanced back at McCoy with a rueful grin. "See, Bones? Right as rain."

McCoy crossed his arms. "You look like hell, kid."

It was true. Jim had a fine layer of dirt and mud worked into his hair and skin. He'd swapped out his gold command shirt—dripping and torn—for one of the medical station's spare uniforms. Of course, McCoy could only imagine what _he_ looked like. Minutes ago he'd run a hand through his still-damp hair and found a leaf stuck to the back of his head.

Chapel activated the regen unit and handed a second mug of tea to Jim, who accepted it with his uninjured hand.

"Either of you want to explain to me how you ended up all the way out here," Chapel asked, seating herself across from them, "if the _Enterprise_ is parked in orbit?"

McCoy felt Jim's eyes on him again, and shook his head. " _You_ got us into this," he growled.

"But—" Jim gestured indignantly at his broken wrist.

McCoy shot him a glare that could've melted glass.

For a moment Jim's mouth gaped open and shut like a fish. Then he let out a resigned sigh. "Fine." He rolled his eyes for good measure as he turned to Chapel, and McCoy afforded himself a brief smirk at Jim's expense.

"Look," Jim said, "all I wanted was to make brownies, ok?"

The nurse's eyebrows shot to her hairline. "Come again?"

Jim raised his good hand in protest. "I swear it's not what you think."

* * *

 _Twelve hours earlier:_

"Bones, I've never asked you for anything in my life."

"That is _far_ from true."

"Christmas present?"

"It's October."

"Early Christmas present?"

"Jim, I'm a doctor, not an idiot." McCoy let out a long sigh through his nose. In his right hand he held a cup of rapidly cooling coffee, in his left, a PADD loaded with the last round of crew physical stats. Jim was standing in front of him, blocking his path out of the ship's mess and giving him the _look_. The one that said: _I found us a new bar. It's kind of a dive and it doesn't really have a name, but I was there the other night and it's_ great _._

Or: _I'm taking the test again and I want you there_.

Or: _I'm sending Dr. Marcus down planetside to crack open a torpedo and_ she _asked for the steadiest hands on the ship, so..._

The look that meant no end of trouble for him or anybody else involved.

Well, today he was having _none_ of it.

"Please?" Jim asked, and it was less a plea and more a question of when McCoy's resolve was going to crack.

McCoy shot his captain a disbelieving stare. "This is ridiculous. I am _not_ getting yanked into another one of your goddamn schemes, much less a food-related one."

"Bones—"

"No, Jim. You have a problem. Do you remember wasabi roulette?"

Jim actually had the nerve to roll his eyes.

Careful not to spill his coffee, McCoy pushed past him, adding darkly, " _I_ remember wasabi roulette."

He heard Jim's footsteps behind him in the corridor.

"All I'm talking about is a couple of hours."

"I've got better things to do than babysit you while you run wild on the surface of an unknown planet." He reached the turbolift, pressing _Deck Five_ on the console, unsurprised when Jim slipped through the doors just as they were closing.

"First of all, I happen to know you don't," he said.

McCoy glared at him. "Oh you do, do you?"

"Graham was practically skipping to the botany lab which means you've been hunkered down in your office with nothing to do and no one to grumble at."

Well. It was hard to argue with the truth.

"Second," Jim continued, "it's not an unknown planet. There's a Federation research encampment with a commissary."

"That probably sells protein nibs, powdered milk, and off-the-books Romulan ale," McCoy replied dryly as the turbolift came to a halt and the doors whirred open.

As he stepped into the corridor leading to the Medbay, he heard Jim after him, drawing the confused looks of the handful of crewmembers passing by:

"There is a _dearth_ of chocolate on this ship, Bones, and I will _not_ have that this close to the holidays!"

McCoy smirked. "Still October!" he called over his shoulder, as the turbolift doors slid shut.

The on-duty medic gave McCoy a confused glance as he entered Medbay—technically it was now beta shift, and he didn't need to be there—but McCoy ignored him, heading straight for his office. It was a mess, but his quarters were more so, and for once the Medbay was quiet.

No sooner had he'd sat down that a message _dinged_ on his PADD.

 **Jim Kirk** : _Fine. I'm going anyways. No brownies for you._

McCoy stared at the message for a moment. Then he glanced at the computer console, at the to-do list detailing the notes and paperwork he needed to complete for the ship-wide quarterly physicals. Negligible, since he'd spent the last week and a half busting his ass to get it done. He felt his shoulders sag with inevitability.

He sat staring for a few moments more before getting to his feet, his coffee untouched.

"God _dammit_ , Jim."

* * *

"What do you _mean_ you're out?"

McCoy sighed, a few steps back from where Jim was getting into it with the commissary clerk.

With the promise of brownies in his future, Scotty had agreed to keep silent about their mini-jaunt to the planet's surface while the _Enterprise_ made a pit stop to complete engine repairs. He'd beamed them down to the research encampment on the planet's surface, settled in a leaf-litter strewn clearing in the middle of a damp, tropical forest.

To say the encampment was sparse would be putting it mildly. The commissary appeared to be the only permanent building in the area. The rest were pop-up research tents, covered in a reflective material that blocked any sunlight that filtered down through the trees and kept out the oppressive heat. Outside, the air was soupy with humidity. McCoy crossed his arms, feeling rivulets of sweat drip down his back and willing himself not to dwell on the fact that he had a pile of dirty laundry waiting for him in his quarters.

The commissary clerk was a portly man with a thick moustache and a glare to rival McCoy's. He crossed his arms. "I mean," he growled, "we're _out_. Last shipment sold out last week."

"But that doesn't make any sense," Jim insisted. "Listen, I happen to know the last supply ship that made it through here a week ago. How do you run out of a standard shipment of baking chocolate in three days? At an encampment of _twenty people_?"

"Last supply ship had a problem with the manifest."

To McCoy's ears that sounded like a load of horseshit, but he was happy enough to let Jim do the arguing. He glanced at his comm. On the ship it was now 1400 hours. If it didn't work out, he thought, maybe—just maybe—he could get back to his quarters and actually _enjoy_ his afternoon off. Get the laundry out of the way, and then try to get back into the mystery novel he'd been reading on and off for the last four months. And hope Jim would be at least somewhat content with replicated cocoa.

"So…nothing? You guys have nothing," he heard Jim say in frustration.

"Look, if it really means that much to you, you can check yourself. The ship made another stop at the observation post. They keep the manifest records on hand there." The clerk pointed across the clearing to where the trees swallowed up a narrow foot path. "About four kilometers thataway."

Jim glanced back at him, and McCoy let out a long sigh.

* * *

 _Four hours later:_

" _Don't tell me you're gonna quit just because of an ominous breeze, Bones_ ," McCoy repeated, holding his communicator high over his head, trying to get a signal. Nothing. He turned back to Jim with a glare. "There's absolutely _no chance_ it could be an indication of potentially unsafe weather changes!"

Jim scowled back at him. Like McCoy he was drenched from head to toe, his light hair dripping into his eyes. He shouted over the storm: "For God's sake, Bones, it's just rain!"

"Yeah," McCoy snapped, "and I wouldn't have a problem with that if the damn comm was working!"

Lightning flashed overhead, illuminating the surrounding trees, and seconds later came the inevitable thunderclap. McCoy didn't move. After the first three or so strikes, he'd stopped getting spooked by the near-immediate _boom_ that followed.

The rain had started as a mild drizzle. Shortly after that, the wind. Nothing to be worried about that, Jim had said—they were on the right track, still following the footpath through the dense trees. Then, without warning, the sky was crushed with clouds that made the forest dark as night, and they were caught in a downpour that sent leaves and small rivers of mud through the footpath, lowering visibility to almost nothing. At that point, Jim had agreed that _maybe_ it was time to turn back. Ten minutes later the comms and tricorder had stopped working, and an hour after that they were lost.

Twenty minutes ago, the storm had reached what McCoy felt he could rightly call Biblical proportions.

"Did you even bother to check the weather before beaming us down here?" he shouted.

Jim wasn't looking at him. He was messing with the tricorder again, directing it at the forest floor.

Another flash of lightning drew McCoy's attention away from Jim. He turned, just as the lightning strike was followed by another thunderclap, this time so loud it shook his ribcage, making him jump. So much for not getting spooked.

Over the roar of the wind, he heard Jim yell behind him: "Listen—if we can configure the tricorder to identify our tracks—"

Jim's voice cut off abruptly.

McCoy whipped around, and blinked. "Jim?"

No answer, and no Jim. As if he'd vanished out of thin air.

McCoy felt his heart rate tick up a notch. "Jim?" he repeated.

He took a step toward where Jim had just been standing—

—and fell straight down through a slurry of vines and leaves, landing hard and pitching forward as his knees buckled under him. Then he was lying on his side on damp, muddy rock, the wind knocked out of him, the adrenaline draining slowly from his system.

He tilted his head back and could see, far above, the broken vines that had concealed the hole—the cave, he now realized—he'd just fallen into like a messy lattice, the shower of damp leaf litter now falling through the branches.

To his left, a rustle of movement, a flash of command gold.

McCoy pushed himself upright with a groan. "Dammit, Jim—"

He broke off.

Jim was crouched over in the gloom, leaning against the cave wall, cradling his right wrist, his face white.

"Oh, _hell_ ," McCoy breathed. In a moment he was at Jim's side.

"I'm ok," Jim said immediately, his voice strained.

"In a pig's eye," McCoy muttered. He turned to where he'd fallen. "Where's the tricorder?" There was obviously a fracture but he needed to know how bad it was, and without the scanner there was no way to properly tell.

"I don't know," Jim said, "I don't have it. I dropped it when I—" he slipped against the cave wall and grimaced as he jostled his right arm.

Heart pounding, McCoy looked up at the hole in the cave ceiling. A flash of lightning briefly illuminated the cave—long enough for him to see that it was much deeper than he'd initially realized.

"Stay here."

He stood, pulling his otherwise useless comm out of his pocket and flicking on the flashlight function. He walked a few meters away from the hole in the ceiling, the cave walls narrowing until he came to a narrow crevasse in the rock, on the other side of it a long, dark tunnel. McCoy frowned, squinted ahead. Beyond the reach of the flashlight's beam he could see nothing but blackness. He swallowed. The smart thing would be to wait out the storm.

"See anything?" he heard Jim call.

McCoy glanced back to see Jim already struggling to his feet. He opened his mouth, some variation of _dammit, Jim, I told you to stay put_ on the tip of his tongue—

—and then he heard it.

Faint beneath the roar of the wind and rain above, so faint he could barely hear it, but perceptible nonetheless: a low growl, echoing towards him from deep in the tunnel.

McCoy felt the hair on the back of his neck stand up. He stood stock still, paralyzed, staring into the yawning darkness, straining his ears, praying he was just hearing things.

Another growl—distant, but this time undeniable. McCoy cursed and flicked off his flashlight, his imagination warping into overdrive. His mind jumped from away missions gone wrong to the ghost stories his father had told him back in Georgia, to the handful of nightmare-inducing xenozoology papers he'd read over for his second-year roommate at the Academy. He remembered running for his life on Nibiru, spears flying past his head with inches to spare. He recalled every broken, mangled body that had lain on his operating table in the Medbay.

No tricorder, no communications, Jim injured, and neither of them armed.

"Bones?"

McCoy jumped, stifling a yelp as he whirled around to find Jim at his elbow.

Jim stared at him. "Bones, what—"

A second growl, low and deep, and _much_ louder this time.

Jim's eyes grew wide.

Simultaneously they flattened themselves against the cold rock on either side of the tunnel entrance.

"Did you see anything?" Jim hissed.

McCoy shook his head.

"Maybe we can catch it off-guard."

Jim turned back to the rest of the cave, casting about for a weapon, and McCoy followed his lead, heart pounding. He came up with a sharp rock. Jim reappeared with a short piece of branch, and they repositioned themselves against the cave wall, waiting as the growling in the tunnel grew louder and louder.

"Bones. Hey, Bones." Jim's voice was hardly a whisper, but it drew McCoy's attention anyways. The kid's eyes were bright with adrenaline, his lips tugged into a determined smile. "I am not left-handed," he mouthed.

McCoy blinked in disbelief, and for a moment the hot, dark fear that clung to his spine dissipated. He managed a small smile back and shook his head.

That was the thing about Jim. He didn't just live—he lived in defiance of death. Hell, even after the warp core, he'd come back with bad jokes about only being _mostly_ dead. The chutzpah, the crazy harebrained schemes, the stubborn, relentless _I-don't-believe-in-no-win-scenarios_ —for better or worse it was contagious.

They _were_ going to take out a cave monster with a rock and a stick. They _were_ going to find a way back to the surface. The storm would let up, the comms would work again, they would make contact with the _Enterprise_. Within a few hours they'd be back on board. Jim would make his damn brownies, and McCoy would stumble into his quarters, never so grateful to see the pile of dirty laundry waiting for him.

Then the comm at his side chirped, and McCoy felt his heart sink.

It was barely a blip, really. Just a split second of static before the damn thing fizzled out again. But in the enclosed space, it was deafening. Across the tunnel entrance, Jim's eyes were blue saucers, his face stricken.

So this was it. This was how they were going to die. On a goddamn _brownie expedition_.

As McCoy's eyes slid shut, he could almost see the idiotic regrets, the things left unsaid, undone, floating through the forefront of his mind. He could count them like sheep.

Then suddenly the growling stopped. McCoy's eyes snapped open.

All was silent but for pouring rain and howling wind. He darted a glance at Jim, then up at the tunnel entrance. They waited.

And waited.

Through the fog of animal fear blanketing his brain, McCoy felt a glimmer of rationality. He frowned in the gloom.

Then—

"Hello?"

Across the tunnel entrance, Jim blinked in surprise.

" _Hello?_ " the voice repeated.

The voice was muffled, but McCoy was almost certain they were talking to a human, and a native Standard-speaker to boot.

Jim glanced up at the tunnel entrance. "Hello?" he called back.

"…To whom am I speaking?" the voice asked.

Jim paused before answering. "This is Captain James T. Kirk of the USS _Enterprise_."

For a moment, there was no response. Then—

McCoy shot Jim a frown.

 _Giggles._

Jim stared right back, his face pinched in confusion. Whoever was on the other side of the wall was now laughing uproariously.

Jim stood and moved to the tunnel entrance and McCoy followed him. Not ten feet away, stood a humanoid figure in a jumpsuit, draped in a heavy-looking poncho, its face obscured by a plastic faceplate and a dark hood. Doubled over in hysterics.

McCoy felt a flash of anger. "Dammit, this man needs medical attention!" he shouted, gesturing roughly at Jim.

The figure straightened up and moved forward, clambering through the tunnel entrance. McCoy shot a sidelong glance at Jim and they stepped back in unison, keeping the figure between them and the cave wall. As it emerged into the dim light, McCoy could make out the plastic sheen of a faceplate under the low hood. Then a flash of lightning illuminated the ravine above, and through the faceplate McCoy saw a flash of blue eyes—and his mouth gaped open.

The figure pulled back its— _her_ —hood, and removed her mask. Her light blonde hair was no longer cut in a short bob, as McCoy remembered it, but grown out and pulled away from her face, plastered to her scalp from the driving rain.

Still laughing gently to herself, Christine Chapel put her hands on her hips. "Leonard McCoy, as I live and breathe."

* * *

"And that's when you found us," Jim finished.

McCoy's tea had gone cold. His shoulders were sore, his left leg full of pins and needles. He shifted in his chair, watching as Jim fell silent and Chapel raised her eyebrows at them both. For a moment, no one said anything, and the only sound was the drumming of rain on the windows and the hum of the bone knitter.

Then Chapel's mouth quirked into an amused smile. "You're right," she said.

Jim blinked at her. "What about?"

"It's not what I was expecting." She stood, moving to an ancient-looking console on the other side of the room. "Although to be fair, I don't know what I was expecting. You two just about gave me a heart attack when you tripped the motion sensors in the cave."

"You have motion sensors in the cave?" McCoy asked.

"It's one of the research sites. This planet used to be home to an extinct race of humanoids. Our resident xenoarchaeologist has been studying the cave drawings."

"So you thought one of your colleagues was in trouble and got us instead," Jim concluded.

"Uh-huh." Chapel flipped a switch on the console and picked up a small, silver earpiece. "Although generally they don't conduct research in the caves during the storms. That's when the _ylit-katur_ hunts."

The rational part of his brain knew he was safe and out of danger, but McCoy felt a frisson of residual fear all the same. "The what?" he asked.

Chapel looked back over her shoulder at them. "Burrowing serpent," she said dryly, "about two meters long. Fangs as thick as your index finger. They're most active during the rainy season."

"So," Jim said cautiously, darting a glance in his direction, "that's the reason for the, uh…"

"Freaky apex predator recording?" Chapel smirked. "Yes."

Jim's eyes were on him again, now repentant. "Bones—"

"Don't even try, Jim."

"Looks like the storm's beginning to let up," Chapel interrupted. "I can try to contact the _Enterprise_."

As if on cue, McCoy's comm crackled to life:

"— _are able please respond. Repeat,_ Enterprise _to Doctor McCoy—_ "

Uhura sounded the way she always sounded in a crisis. Contained and professional, an undeniable note of concern hovering under her words. McCoy snatched the comm off the table behind him.

"McCoy here," he said, then, to preempt the inevitable interrogation: "We're ok. Jim broke his damn wrist but he'll patch up fine."

Over the comm he heard an audible sigh of relief. " _Where on earth are you two?_ " Uhura asked. " _Scotty said you beamed down to the planet to go to the outpost commissary._ "

McCoy winced. At least Scotty hadn't mentioned _why_ they'd beamed down.

"Medical clinic at the observation post. We'll send you the coordinates."

" _We'll await your transmission."_ Uhura paused, then added, " _Commander Spock would like a word upon your return_. _Just so you're…prepared._ "

McCoy turned to Jim before he could say a word. "I blame you."

Jim shrugged.

Chapel was suddenly at his elbow, motioning for him give her the comm. Exhausted and grateful, he handed it over.

"Lieutenant!" Chapel said, grinning. "It's good to hear your voice again."

* * *

After the bone knitter finished its course on Jim's arm, McCoy exchanged the borrowed uniform shirt for his own still-damp science blues (Jim's command gold was beyond salvaging), and Chapel led them to a small transport pad.

"You'll be fine, Leonard," she added, patting McCoy's shoulder at his grimace. "It works better than the lights, at any rate."

"Chapel," Jim said. "Thank you. As always, you're sorely missed."

"Captain, wait a moment," Chapel said suddenly. She disappeared from the transport room, and returned moments later, holding a slim rectangle wrapped in black, shiny paper. She handed it to Jim, whose eyes went huge.

McCoy didn't have to read the label to know what it was. "Aw hell, Christine, you're just encouraging him," he said.

To his left, Jim's voice, uncharacteristically humbled: "I don't know what to say."

Chapel sent him a smile in return before stepping onto the transporter pad and giving them each a hug.

"Take care of him, Leonard," she said to McCoy, before stepping back.

"Take care of yourself," McCoy shot back, smiling despite himself.

"Enterprise _to observation post. You ready there, lass_?" came Scotty's voice over the comm.

"Ready Mr. Scott," Christine replied. "On your command, Captain."

"Energize," Jim said.

Later McCoy would swear he'd heard just the faintest crack in Jim's voice.

At 0200 hours, after Spock had raked them thoroughly over the coals— _as senior officers aboard a Federation starship I find myself surprised that I must remind you both of the consequences of such irresponsibility—_ McCoy stood at the counter in one of the vacant mess kitchens, his eyes shut.

Next to him, he knew, Jim was dipping a steaming brownie into a glass of milk. "Worth it," he said.

McCoy didn't have to open his eyes to know Jim was grinning like an idiot. He didn't bother to argue. He didn't reply at all, in fact. His mouth, as it happened, was full.


	2. Wasabi Roulette

**A/N:** If you've come for serious business, turn back before it's too late!

* * *

 _Wasabi Roulette_

 _Stardate 2258.240_

In his defense, Jim would say later, he'd been pretty drunk, and he wasn't the only one.

The officers' lounge was empty but for the seven of them: Bones, Spock, Uhura, Sulu, Chekov, and Scotty. Amidst empty bottles of Mars beer, a tumbler of Cardassian grain liquor, and several partly-full glasses of neat Kentucky bourbon, Scotty's card deck was spread out across the table, long untouched. Nobody had bothered to put it away yet.

Poker night, Jim was discovering to his delight, tended to get a little rowdy toward the end of the evening. He'd started it to mark the _Enterprise_ 's first month in space; in the eight weeks since, it had become a regular gathering.

To his left, Bones was scowling at the table, his arms crossed. "We are not _twelve-year-olds_ ," he was saying, "and therefore nobody is playing _truth-or-dare_."

Chekov went vaguely pink. "It was _friendly_ suggestion," he said, spreading his hands and sitting back in his chair. Another discovery: the ensign's Standard got worse and worse the drunker he got.

Jim grinned. "Concerned about your scandalous past, Bones?"

"I can think of better ways to embarrass myself in front of all of you," the doctor replied.

"Well, I don't hear you suggesting any."

"I still think," Scotty interrupted, "we should break out the pitcher and set up a round of King's cup."

Across the table, Spock raised an eyebrow. He was the only one who was still sober. At the first poker night Jim had suggested that they break out the hot chocolate mix to go with the booze, an offer Spock had refused point-blank. In retrospect, that was probably a good thing. _Somebody_ needed to make sure the officers' lounge didn't go up in flames.

"King's cup?" Spock asked.

"It's a drinking game," Jim clarified.

"That was easily inferable, Captain," Spock replied, "I meant to inquire about the rules of the game."

"Spock, you can call me Jim off-duty."

Spock ignored him and turned to Uhura for an explanation.

"You'll all go blind— _and_ ruin the bourbon," Bones said, irritably, picking up the bottle and removing it from the poker table.

Uhura snatched it back with a lighthearted scoff and handed it to Scotty, prompting a sharp glare from Bones.

"Watch yourself, missy," he growled.

"You're just grouchy because you don't know how to bluff," Uhura laughed, as Scotty poured out another round for the table.

"I'm with the doctor on this one; I'd do mayo shooters before I'd jump down that rabbit hole…" Sulu said with a shudder.

Scotty's eyes lit up. "Have I told any of you about the party Greg Olson and I stumbled in on when we were cadets?"

Jim snorted. "At least five times," he said, at the same time that Spock said, "Twice, Mr. Scott."

"I haven't heard it," said Chekov, and looked curiously around the table as everyone but Sulu laughed. "What?"

"You've heard it, kid; you just don't remember because afterward you were passed out on the floor of Medbay," Bones said, grudgingly accepting a finger of bourbon from Scotty.

" _I've_ never heard it," Sulu said, and Scotty brightened.

To a collective groan from all but Chekov and Sulu, the engineer launched into a story which, as far as Jim was concerned, could've been summed up with the phrase "olive oil shots." Still, Scotty told it well, and soon enough everyone was rapt, staring at him with varying levels of incredulity. Jim's mind wandered as he sipped his drink. He really did want to come up with something before the night turned into another debate with Spock about the merits of human party culture and everyone else left out of boredom.

The idea came to him then. Something he remembered hearing about in—well. In juvenile detention. As a teenager he'd never really been in the right company to try it out, but the notion had always stuck with him.

He waited for Scotty to finish his story before he spoke.

"I've got something."

All eyes turned to him and he explained the concept, prompting intrigued looks and raised eyebrows. When he was done, he spread his hands. "What do you guys think?"

At first, no one responded. They were all looking at him, or at each other—considering. Then Bones gave him a flat, skeptical frown.

"Wasabi roulette," he said. "That's basically what you're describing."

Jim shrugged.

"Where would we get the wasabi?" Uhura asked.

"Yeah," Sulu added, "it's not exactly stocked in the commissary."

Scotty leaned forward. "Actually—the replicator does passable California rolls. I bet I could configure it to spit out what you're lookin' for, Jim," he said, to which Bones muttered: "God knows how, since it can't handle a halfway decent cup of coffee."

Jim felt a grin tugging at the corners of his mouth. "So…does this mean you guys are in? Sulu? Chekov?"

Sulu nodded, slowly. "Can't be dumber than space-jumping onto a giant mining drill."

"Did you know," Chekov said, leaning across the table and nearly knocking over Uhura's glass, "wasabi was invented in—"

"Don't even go there, buddy," Sulu replied, moving Chekov's glass across the table. "I'm in," he added, as Chekov swatted him.

"Me too," the navigator said to Jim, then to Sulu, "give me my drink back."

Sulu took a leisurely sip of his own. "Not 'till you've earned it."

"Scotty? Uhura?"

"I was in before you even started talking, Captain," Scotty laughed into his glass.

"You know," Uhura mused, "this sounds to me like the kind of macho bullshit that the wash-out Academy cadets would always get up to before first semester midterms rolled around. Then again..." A smile tugged her lips. "...none of us washed out." She accepted another finger of bourbon from Scotty.

"Spock?" Jim asked.

Spock was the only one of them still sitting ramrod straight. He glanced around the table, then fixed Jim with a quizzical expression. "Might I ask a clarifying question?"

Jim rested his elbows on the table and folded his arms. "Shoot."

"The objective of the game is to eliminate one player from each round by causing them intense pain?"

"That's about how it works," Jim replied.

"To what end?"

Jim shrugged. "Entertainment?" he supplied.

Spock looked thoughtfully at him before concluding: "Most illogical." He paused. "That said, I am willing to participate."

Jim's eyebrows shot up, but he didn't question it. Suppressing the grin that threatened to spread across his face, he turned to Bones, who was fixing him with a scowl.

"Bones?" he asked, a playful upswing in his voice.

"No."

" _Bo-ones…_ "

Bones crossed his arms. "I don't care how drunk you think I am—I am _not_ taking part in whatever kind of damn fool nonsense this is."

"Content to be a chicken, huh?" Sulu asked, now holding Chekov's glass at arm's length as the navigator attempted to maneuver himself around Sulu's chair.

Bones raised his glass. "Perfectly content, Mr. Sulu."

Spock frowned and turned to Uhura. "I take it Mr. Sulu's reference to poultry is a euphemism for the doctor's fearfulness—"

Uhura patted his arm and finished her drink. "It's not that important, Spock."

Jim rolled his eyes at Bones. "Fine. You can ref then."

It took Scotty all of five minutes to configure the replicator to spit out what they needed: plain sushi rolls—rice, seaweed, the works—the contents concealed by a piece of egg across the top of each piece. The safe ones contained avocado; the rest—one for each round—were dubbed "wasabi bombs." They moved Scotty's cards out of the center of the table and made a makeshift lazy Susan out of the round poker chip set. Round one: six safe pieces, one wasabi bomb. After spinning the poker chip set, Bones gave up his seat to "watch from a safe distance."

Jim shot him a grin as, in sync with the rest of the senior officers, he lifted his piece of sushi and placed it in his mouth, whole.

Almost immediately, from his left there came a stifled screech.

Scotty's face was already ruddy from the alcohol, but on contact with the wasabi bomb, he flushed scarlet and gagged. He clapped a hand to his forehead, then to his mouth, then pushed back his chair and fled to the garbage chute, trailed by a chorus of enthusiastic _whoas_.

"Round of applause for Mr. Scott!" Jim laughed, over the sound of Scotty losing his dinner. It earned him a middle finger from the engineer and an eye roll from Bones. When Scotty had returned to his seat, gasping and fanning himself, Jim turned to the table, grinning. "All right, next victim!"

The next victim was Chekov. Unlike Scotty, he didn't bother waiting around to be poked fun at, but leapt to his feet and fled the officers' lounge altogether. After that came Sulu, who stayed in his seat, gripping the edge of the table and gasping, "Oh crap, oh _crap_ ," over and over, until he'd recovered.

"And then there were three," Bones announced, sliding the next plate onto the poker chip set and spinning it.

This time, for a moment there was nothing. Jim's eyes flicked between his XO and his communications officer, trying to gauge which it was, because it wasn't him. Then, to his left, Uhura's eyes widened. She gave a choking cough, then another, her hand flying to her mouth.

" _Oh_ ," she gasped, "it's me—it's _definitely_ me—"

"Nyota?"

For a split second, the note of concern in Spock's voice was alarming and infectious. Jim looked between his first officer and his communications lieutenant, prepared to get to his feet—but then Uhura beat him to it.

Laughing uncontrollably, she pushed back her chair and crouched beside the table, eyes streaming, a hand clapped over her mouth and nose.

Spock's chair scraped against the floor as he stood, but Uhura waved him off.

"I'm ok, Spock, I'm ok—" she was cut off by her own cackling. After several long seconds, she drew herself up, fanning her face with one hand, still giggling intermittently. "Whoo," she breathed, drawing her sleeve across her forehead where a thin line of sweat had gathered at her hairline. She placed a hand on Spock's arm to reassure him. "Ok."

Jim glanced back at Bones, who was leaning against the wall, smirking at him. "You can call it quits at any time, Jim."

The bastard's voice was even more honeyed than usual.

Jim shot back a defiant grin. "Bring it on."

Someone put the final plate in front of them and spun it. Jim didn't bother to look—his eyes were on Spock, whose eyes were on him. In unison, they lifted their pieces of sushi to their mouths. Spock bit into his; Jim placed his own in his mouth, whole.

Jim chewed, swallowed. Frowned. He definitely tasted _some_ wasabi. But there was no burning, harsh pain, no tears streaming from his eyes, no mad scramble to the trash chute. "Ok…" he said, "…either I don't have it, or all of you are a bunch of babies."

Across the table, Spock was looking at him, perfectly composed. "I can assure you, Jim, that is not the case."

Jim looked between Spock's face, then down at his plate at the half-bitten-into piece of sushi, full of the green, chalky paste. "Are you _serious_?"

Spock inclined his head, just barely.

Jim spluttered. "Wha—how—how are you not dying on the floor right now?"

Now holding a cup of tea and standing next to McCoy, Uhura snickered.

Jim turned back to Spock, who was chewing the other half of his wasabi bomb with all the shock and panic of a placid heifer. Then, just for a split second, his mouth quirked at the corner.

Spock was _smirking_ at him.

Jim's jaw dropped. "That is not _normal_ —"

Spock had swallowed the other half of the wasabi bomb and neatly cut him off. "I believe the word you are searching for is 'human,' Captain. Vulcan oral receptors have a much higher tolerance for spice than those of humans. I would hypothesize that most everyone in this room would find most Vulcan dishes...difficult to stomach."

Jim gaped.

It was unbelievable. And—he hated to admit it—anticlimactic.

He glanced around the room, from Scotty to Chekov to Sulu to Uhura to Spock, with a creeping feeling of embarrassment. The whole thing had been his idea; that he should escape unscathed seemed somehow wrong.

That, and Spock had _smirked_ at him.

Well. That settled it.

"I want to try one," Jim said, glancing over at Bones.

The doctor frowned at him. "Jim, you just won—"

"I _want_ to try one," he repeated.

Bones opened his mouth to argue, but Scotty interrupted, sitting up and uncrossing his arms with a smirk. " _I_ say if he wants to try one, let him try one. Wouldn't you agree, Mr. Spock?"

Spock raised an eyebrow. "As captain, I believe he is within his right."

Bones lifted his hands and let them fall before snatching the empty plate off the table and making his way back over to the replicator.

And then the last piece was in front of him, and silence had fallen around the table.

Jim knew he'd made enough gut-feeling decisions in his life to have a well-earned reputation for recklessness. Some had served him and the people around him well. Rising to Pike's dare and joining Starfleet, for instance. Or sprinting onto the bridge of the _Enterprise,_ minutes before they warped straight into the Battle of Vulcan. Others, not so much: the corvette, his first visit to Mike's Bar. The shag carpet incident. Later, in the privacy of his quarters, he would reflect that this particular decision fell neatly into the second category.

He picked up the piece of sushi and placed it on his tongue, whole, then closed his mouth around it and chewed. For a moment, there was nothing. Then—

His chopsticks clattered to the tabletop. A sound barreled out of his throat that he hadn't known he was capable of making.

It felt like someone had given him a nasal spray full of rocket fuel, and then lit his sinuses on _fire_.

He was in over his head. He hadn't realized what he was getting himself into. Maybe it was the bourbon, maybe it was the dearth of halfway decent sushi in Iowa, but holy hell if he wasn't stone cold sober now.

And he still had to swallow the damn thing. Maybe that would help—it would get the sting out of his mouth and nose. He did so, with no small amount of effort—

No, no, no, no, _no_. Not helpful _in the slightest._

Jim was vaguely aware of Bones and Uhura howling with laughter as he pushed back his chair and stumbled toward the sink. He understood now why Scotty had puked and felt a stab of guilt for mocking him. If he got out of this alive, he was going to buy the man a goddamn handle of scotch for his trouble.

He needed to flush the pain out of his system. Hell, he needed to remove his head from his body and dunk it in a bucket of ice, but he'd settle for what he could get. He lunged for the faucet and turned it on full blast with his head under the tap. Water rushed over his face and down his hairline, trickling into his collar.

Slowly, gradually, the pain began to subside.

He stood there for a moment, leaning against the sink, breathing heavily as the last vestiges of the wasabi bomb burned through his sinuses. His eyes were watering. Behind him, he could hear Bones and Uhura, still in hysterics.

There was a tap on his shoulder, and he glanced sideways to see Chekov standing there at his elbow, holding out a hand towel.

Gratefully he accepted it, drawing himself up and running it over his face, through his hair. When he looked up, his gaze was drawn across the room to the poker table, where Scotty was shuffling the deck of cards. Sulu was halfway out of his seat, helping Spock and Uhura clean up empty bottles, and Bones was pouring everyone another round. A smile tugged at the corners of Jim's mouth.

He made his way back to the table and sat, draping the towel over the back of his chair as Scotty dealt a new hand.

Bones pushed a glass of bourbon across the table at him. "Learned your lesson?" he asked, with a smirk.

"I did warn you of Vulcans' higher tolerance for extreme spice," Spock added.

Jim looked around the room at his senior officers, and couldn't help but feel a swell of admiration.

All the troubles in the galaxy didn't stand a chance.

* * *

 **A/N:** Drink responsibly, friends.


	3. Soup That is Too Hot: Part 1

_Soup That is Too Hot: Part 1_

 _Stardate 2262.325_

 _Thursday_

Something was deeply, deeply wrong.

Spock could feel his heart racing in his chest, perspiration collecting beneath his hairline, a deep flush spreading up his neck and into his ears. He was _never_ this warm, not even in his quarters aboard the _Enterprise_ with the temperature controls, modified for his Vulcan physiology, on the highest setting.

He stared across the table to where Jim and Doctor McCoy were sitting opposite him in the booth, both in much higher spirits than they had been even hours before. As he looked between them, he could feel his eyes moving in their sockets, sluggish and confused, relaying none of the precise observations that normally overlaid his perception of the world. The edge of his vision was blurred.

The doctor was wearing a smirk and holding a glass of some sort of wheat-based beverage, cold and mildly alcoholic. Spock _knew_ he had at one point learned the word for it, but it was nowhere to be found in his memory. Jim was telling a story that Spock was finding difficult to follow. Something about a shag carpet, someone named Finnegan, and a moose.

How long had Jim been talking? Seconds? Minutes? Spock realized he wasn't sure. He could barely hear over the din of the restaurant.

If Nyota were here he could tell her, intimate to her that something was wrong, that he needed her help. How many times had she demanded of him just that? Had become _angry_ when he hadn't expressed his concerns to her?

 _Tell me what you need, tell me_.

He felt something clench in his chest, tight and painful.

If he had waited, if he had waited just _one more day_ , he could have been here with her now, could have heard her voice without the cold spike of anger clipping her words, could have—

Could have held her one last time.

At the thought, arousal spread through the pit of his stomach like wildfire, and Spock felt his heart leap into his throat with a rush of horrified clarity.

It couldn't be.

But it had to. There was no other logical explanation.

"Spock?"

Spock's eyes snapped up to find Jim and McCoy staring at him.

Jim leaned across the table, the laughter fading fast from his eyes.

"You okay, buddy?"

Spock opened his mouth to answer, but no sound came out.

* * *

 _Stardate 2262.323_

 _Tuesday_

"I need your help."

For a moment, Spock was so surprised he found himself without words. He felt his head cant to one side, his eyebrow twitch.

Before the white caduceus imprinted into the opaque doors of the Medical Bay, Doctor McCoy stood peeling off a pair of protective gloves. Around them the corridor was agreeably quiet, no longer crowded with medics, nurses, and injured personnel as it had been earlier in the evening when Spock had sprinted through on his way to Engineering.

The explosion had, fortuitously, been a minor one. With the exception of one crewmember—presumably the reason Doctor McCoy was standing before him in scrubs, now well into gamma shift—those in close proximity had sustained only superficial injuries. Ship repairs would go quickly once they made their already-scheduled stop in two days' time at Starbase 11.

Spock waited for McCoy to clarify, but instead the doctor's brow knitted in irritation. "For god's sake, don't just stand there looking at me all smug like that. This is important."

Spock felt a flash of annoyance of his own.

Following the initial chaos, he had spent forty-seven minutes listening to Mr. Scott deliver a blustering tirade that addressed and dismissed every possible cause of the explosion. The ship's heating control systems, Scott had said indignantly, were in perfect working order. The problem had to be a software bug that had caused one of the mechanisms to overheat and spark, and if anyone's head was to be on the block for something that wasn't the engineering team's fault, it ought to be his.

So, they had checked over the software algorithms linked to the Engineering Bay, only stumbling upon and correcting the software bug in question after three hours in front of a control console. Spock had left Mr. Scott with the assurance that no one's head was to be "on the block" for something which was clearly an accident, and the knowledge that they both now had lengthy incident reports to compose for Starfleet Command.

Eighty-six minutes into his work checking the software algorithms, Nyota had sent him a message about a late dinner in the mess, which he had consciously ignored, along with the growing trepidation in his chest. It would be unproductive to address the subject they needed to discuss before he had had adequate time to prepare.

Now it was late, and Spock required rest and meditation—not an emotionally-charged exchange with the ship's surgeon.

"I am far from smug, Doctor," he replied, fully aware of how clipped the words sounded as they came out, "With what do you need my help?"

McCoy discarded the protective gloves in a nearby trash chute and let out a sigh. "It's Jim."

"…Ah."

A memory from three weeks earlier flashed through his mind. He'd been standing in the corridor just outside the Bridge, watching as Carol Marcus—in dress grays, a duffel bag draped over her shoulder—refused to let the captain see her off, a Starfleet custom when any crewmember permanently left their ship's company.

She had protested in a tone that was far too blithe, far too lighthearted for the occasion. "You've a scheduled subspace call with Command in two minutes, Jim, and a stack of paperwork this high. I know; I've _seen_ it."

"I do not."

"You're a terrible liar."

"Carol, please, just let me—"

"No. You have work to do."

"But—"

" _Jim_."

They'd bickered back and forth for another forty-two seconds (by which time they could have been well on their way to the transporter, Spock noted), before Dr. Marcus had said, "You don't have to stand on ceremony for me," and Jim had answered, "Well, who else am I gonna stand on ceremony for?"

And the corridor had gone silent.

Standing two meters away, Spock had busied himself with a note on his PADD, an official Starfleet communique about an upcoming planetary survey. For a moment, he'd half-expected Jim to pull rank, to launch into a speech about the chain of command, Starfleet tradition, the lieutenant's time aboard the _Enterprise_.

But he hadn't. Instead the captain had seemed to deflate, letting his hands drop to his sides.

"Ok. Just…keep in touch, all right? Let me know you're alive every once in awhile."

"You too. Between the two of us, you're the one we really have to worry about."

They had embraced briefly and awkwardly, then Jim had disappeared back onto the Bridge.

Witnessing the exchange had been deeply uncomfortable. Even more so was accompanying Dr. Marcus to the transporter. Jim did indeed have a scheduled subspace meeting with Command, which left Spock with the duty of seeing the lieutenant off. They had walked in silence, her expression unreadable, until they stepped through the doors of the transporter room.

"It's been lovely working with you, Mr. Spock," she had said.

Then she'd given him a slight smile—one that was profoundly unnerving. Human emotions were generally easy to infer, but humans also had the capacity to present signs of one emotion when they felt another entirely, leaving him utterly in the dark about how to act.

He had floundered for the right response, finally saying, "I believe…we have maintained mutual respect, Lieutenant."

She nodded and hefted her duffel onto her other shoulder. "Best of luck."

Spock had been surprised at the regret he'd felt, watching her vanish from the transporter pad. Despite the circumstances of their first encounter—his irritation with Jim for signing on a second science officer, his automatic distrust of the lieutenant upon discovering her true identity—Dr. Marcus had proven a capable and valuable member of the crew.

 _Part of the family,_ Jim had said, only months earlier. No longer, evidently, and by her own volition.

It unsettled Spock that it could happen that quickly. Though he rarely dreamed, for the first few nights following her departure from the _Enterprise_ , their exchange had replayed in Spock's mind, the lieutenant replaced with someone else. Someone of far more personal significance.

"Is that all you have to say? 'Ah?'"

Spock's brain snapped back to the corridor outside the Medbay, where Doctor McCoy was crossing his arms in annoyance.

"I was merely acknowledging the subject _you_ brought up."

"He's been mopin' around like a sick puppy."

"I am not sure that is an apt comparison—"

"And he just told me he doesn't think he's going to take shore leave."

Spock paused. The _Enterprise_ 's upcoming stop at Starbase 11 was primarily to await the arrival of a Tellarite diplomat who needed transport to the next system. Shore leave was a given, and it was unlike Jim to pass up an opportunity to leave the ship.

That, of course, was hardly his business. "I believe that is within his right."

McCoy shook his head in disbelief. "Kid says he's gonna wait for Yorktown. That's a month and a half from now."

"You still have not specified what you are asking of me, Doctor."

"I need you to find a reason to get his sorry ass off the ship when we show up in port."

Spock raised an eyebrow. "There is nothing that would require his presence on the starbase."

McCoy sucked in an annoyed breath. "I'm aware, Spock."

A fabrication, then. "Vulcans do not lie."

"Oh please, don't give me that horseshit," McCoy snapped. "I've seen you. You can lie just as well as anyone when you put your mind to it."

Spock bristled despite himself. "I can find no justification for interfering with the captain's personal decisions."

"How about he's our friend, and he _needs_ it?"

Spock could feel a mild headache pushing behind his eyes, his emotional control flagging. The conversation was quickly becoming unproductive. He let out a breath. "I appreciate your concern, but Jim's decisions about how to spend his personal time are his own. And as his friends, it is also our duty to respect that."

He inclined his head, deliberately ignoring the tiny, corner of his brain that was satisfied to see McCoy flush with anger. He started off down the corridor.

"Good evening, Doctor," he said, also ignoring the harsh mutter of _green-blooded hobgoblin_ directed at his back.

* * *

 _Stardate 2262.324_

 _Wednesday, 0901 hours_

Thirty-five seconds ago, he had been precisely on time. Now he was late.

Spock felt his eyebrow twitch, and again tapped the code console to the right of the door. From within the captain's ready room, there came the telltale sound of the door chime, but otherwise there was no response.

Another fifteen seconds. Late, and growing more so. He frowned and pressed the door chime again, and again there was no answer. Spock weighed the odds that Jim was not responding for any reason that had to do with safety or security and found them negligible. He keyed in his override code, and the door slid open with a pneumatic hiss.

Jim was standing with his back to the door, leaning over his desk, reading something on a datapad. His shoulders tensed instantly.

"Bones, I _told_ you, I don't want to talk about—" Jim turned and broke off. "Spock. Sorry. …What can I do for you?"

Spock blinked. "You asked me to brief you about the mission assignments following our sojourn at Starbase 11."

An unnecessary request. Beyond providing transport for the Tellarite ambassador and a brief survey of a Class K planet in the next system over, there was little that would require Jim's advance attention for at least the next twenty-seven days. He had complied regardless. He was still unprepared to speak with Nyota. The extra work was a means to buy time.

"Right. Have a seat." Jim moved around the other side of the desk and sat opposite Spock. There were dark circles under his eyes, indicating that he had attained an inadequate amount of sleep—if any.

"We have received instructions from the Fabonian Senate regarding your upcoming audience with the Teenaxian delegation," Spock said, handing Jim the PADD he'd been holding.

Jim pinched the bridge of his nose and accepted it. "Remind me?"

"The opening of peace negotiations between the two planets. The Fabonians have requested that you present the Teenaxians with a gift—a piece of an ancient weapon."

"The Teenaxians aren't going to see that as posturing?"

"In the Fabonian culture to surrender a weapon is a gesture of truce," Spock said. "I have attached a file detailing the relevant background information on both parties. Lieutenant Hannity has provided voice files for pronunciation."

Jim glanced up at him briefly. "Not Lieutenant Uhura?"

Spock shifted, unsure how to respond—but Jim beat him to it.

"Sorry," he said, glancing down at the PADD. "I—thank you. This'll be helpful."

"Captain…"

From a vantage point somewhere in his rational brain, Spock heard the words form in his throat. The idea had taken shape in an instant, and, to his horror, was spilling out of his mouth before he could stop himself:

"We have received another communication from the Tellarite ambassador. He has requested that you meet him personally on Starbase 11."

"What for?" Jim asked, still scanning the file on his PADD.

"He has asked to discuss with you…details of your time at the Academy. In particular, your…unique strategy in overcoming the Kobayashi Maru test."

Before him Jim paused, then looked up. In the eternity before the captain's eyes landed on him, Spock attempted to make sense of what had just happened. He wasn't sure he could even rationalize it as a temporary loss of control, brought on by his dread at the idea of telling Nyota what he was considering.

 _What was wrong_ _with him?_

"Spock," Jim said slowly, "you're about the worst liar I've ever met."

Spock opened his mouth, but no response that was even remotely adequate came to mind. There was a hard glint in Jim's eye, something tugging at the corner of his mouth. Anger? Amusement? Impossible to read. Impossible to know how to respond.

"I don't even believe you came up with that yourself."

Then Jim was on his feet, moving toward the door.

Spock managed to form words. "Captain—where are you—Captain?"

The door was already sliding shut behind him. With no other choice, Spock got to his feet and pursued his captain into the hall.

In retrospect, it shouldn't have been surprising that Jim led him to the Medbay. Spock caught up just in time for the opaque doors to part before him, and to hear Jim's shout:

" _Bones!"_

Anger, then. Indisputably.

There was a crash and a muffled curse, then the sound of a sliding door hissing open, and Doctor McCoy emerged from a back office, looking harried.

" _What?_ " he barked.

Jim gestured behind him without turning around. "Next time you decide to be an inconsiderate dick and recruit somebody to mess around with my personal life, maybe get someone who's a better liar than Spock."

McCoy's eyes flicked to Spock, widening. "Jim—"

"Don't," Jim snapped. He began to pace the width of the room between the biobeds. "It's been three weeks, Bones. I think I'm entitled to feel a little bit shitty. I have been putting up with your grumpy-ass bullshit since day one. _Day one_. You remember flight training? 'Cause _I_ remember flight training. How about third-year finals? How about the time I had to drag you out of Mike's on your ass _the day before a mission?_ And you!" he rounded on Spock. "You are just full of surprises!"

Spock opened his mouth to speak and again found himself lost for words. There had to be some way to diffuse the situation, to explain himself, why he had somehow felt it necessary to go along with Doctor McCoy's ill-advised plan despite his reservations. "Captain—" he began.

"No. I don't wanna hear it. You two are unbelievable. Just—completely—" Jim broke off abruptly, lifting both hands in the air and letting them fall to his sides. He sucked in a deep breath and let it out in one fast, irate puff. When he spoke again, his tone had taken on a false cheerfulness that was nearly as unsettling as his anger. "You know what? Fine. I will take my stupid shore leave. Hell, I'll even get drinks with the pair of you, if it'll get you to shut up. Happy?"

He didn't wait for an answer, but instead turned on his heel and stalked out of the Medbay, turning at the door to growl: "But we are _not_ talking about it."

The doors slid shut with a pneumatic hiss, leaving the Medbay silent. Spock was certain that had they been old-fashioned hinge doors, they would have slammed.

Behind him, Doctor McCoy let out a long breath.

"That worked better than I could have possibly imagined."

Spock turned and stared at him, incredulous. "He obviously prefers not to spend his leave on Starbase 11."

"He needs a damn break." McCoy regarded him without fully turning his head. "Guess you're coming with."

"As I have no desire to watch Jim consume alcohol to the point of inebriation, I think not."

"Suit yourself."

"This is a blatant violation of his privacy."

"Spock, when have you ever known Jim to do something he doesn't want to do?" McCoy was already heading back to his office. "Now get the hell out of my Medbay; you're scaring my staff."

* * *

Nyota came to his quarters twelve hours later.

The modified temperature controls were malfunctioning, and so he answered the door feeling ridiculous, his clothing layered, the tips of his ears itching from the thick woolen hat he was wearing to retain a maximum of body heat.

She did not bother to comment on the temperature of the room. "You've been avoiding me," she said, her arms crossed over her chest, her rich dark eyes accusing.

Mouth dry, he replied automatically: "I have been occupied of late."

"I can tell. Otherwise you wouldn't be avoiding me."

She sat on the bed, crossing her legs at the knee and patting the space beside her. "So we're gonna talk about it. Whatever 'it' is."

As always, he tried and failed to find the right words. The decision before him was no less distressing than it had been following the destruction of Vulcan. But it had not been accompanied by three years of a falling birthrate among the survivors of the genocide, making the elders' renewed request that he leave Starfleet and rejoin the colony on New Vulcan all the more potent.

These facts were unlikely to assuage her anger.

A tired sigh drew his attention back to the room. She had uncrossed her arms.

"You can't keep doing this. Tell me what's wrong. Please. I want to help."

The first time they had asked him to abandon Starfleet, he had made the mistake of not telling her before he made his choice. She had objected, furious, just as she had accused him of not caring about their relationship when he had prepared himself for death in the volcano on Nibiru. In the months that followed, he had made a commitment to himself never to make that mistake again. And so he sat beside her on the bed, and took her hand in his.

An hour later in the Medbay, Doctor McCoy looked up at him in surprise.

"Spock. Is something—"

Spock talked over him quickly, his words coming out in a rush: "Doctor, I have had a change of schedule. I will be accompanying you and Jim to Starbase 11 tomorrow evening. Please notify me of the time at which you plan to disembark."

Before McCoy had a chance to reply, Spock turned on his heel and walked rapidly away, the Medbay doors hissing shut behind him.

* * *

 **A/N** : In retrospect, I probably should have realized this chapter needed to be a two-parter _before_ it surpassed the 5,000 word mark. Never fear: part two is coming soon.


	4. Soup That is Too Hot: Part 2

_Soup That is Too Hot: Part 2_

 _Stardate 2262.325_

 _Thursday, 2013 hours_

It seemed to Spock that the south promenade of Starbase 11 should have been temporarily closed to the public. Then again, the Federation's offworld administration could hardly be considered fully logical.

Standing at the center of the long walk path before the individual transport pad, Spock cringed at the din of construction. At least four of the several tall office buildings lining the promenade were being renovated. One was mere scaffolding, swarmed by drones and small, automated dumbwaiters carrying buckets and pallets of supplies to the workers on the upper levels. From somewhere in the shell of the building on the ground level, Spock could see sparks flying out onto the walk path. Surely regulations of one kind or another were being ignored, though incredibly, most of the bars and restaurants lining the south promenade appeared to be open. Likely a bid by their owners to maintain an inflow of customers and capital despite the construction efforts—and an ineffective one at that. Apart from himself and Jim, the path was all but deserted.

"A little loud," came Jim's observation from his left: a gross understatement, muffled by the buzz of a reciprocating saw.

From behind them came the unmistakable chimes of the transporter. Seconds later Doctor McCoy materialized, looking faintly nauseous. "I'm never gonna get used to that," he groaned.

"Give yourself a little credit," Jim answered, clapping McCoy's shoulder. "You're a hell of a lot better with it than when we first met."

They never ceased to mystify Spock—these bizarre rituals of human forgiveness. Jim seemed still more drained than Spock had seen him in months, but his mood was considerably less foul than it had been only the day before.

"Bones, you're the mastermind here," Jim said after a moment. "What's the plan?"

"Depends how you wanna wake up tomorrow morning."

Something tugged at the corner of Jim's mouth. "When does the ambassador arrive again?"

"Approximately 1700 hours tomorrow," Spock replied.

"Well, then. Decision made."

They started down the narrow path away from the construction (distance did not significantly diminish the noise), Jim looking out at the high glass observation windows across the gulf of space between the promenade and the starbase's outer wall, McCoy scanning the restaurants to the right of the path. Spock trailed behind.

"What kind of state you planning to be in tomorrow, Spock?" Jim asked, glancing over his shoulder.

Spock arched an eyebrow. "If you are inquiring if I intend to become inebriated, I can assure you the answer is no."

"Fair enough, but you should be aware that you're gonna be the designated pedestrian."

"Designated pedestrian, Captain?"

Ahead of them, McCoy laughed. "The babysitter, Spock. Still glad you decided to come after all?"

" _You_ weren't gonna come?" Jim asked, dryly. "What changed your mind?"

And there it was, the inevitable twist in his stomach leaving him lost for words.

Looking ahead, Spock noted that McCoy had glanced off to the right and was scanning over the restaurants again.

To his credit, the doctor had not requested an explanation for Spock's abrupt change of plans. Spock was unsure whether this was because his friendship with Nyota meant that he already knew, or out of a surprising amount of respect for Spock's privacy.

"Don't get me wrong, I'm glad you're here," Jim clarified. "You've just never struck me as a guys' night out kind of guy."

Again, Spock found himself without an answer. He could hardly tell Jim the full truth. Stating it aloud reinforced its finality.

He was saved from having to formulate a response by McCoy, who had stopped dead in his tracks, causing Spock to bump into him. The twist in his stomach was promptly replaced with a flash of irritation.

" _Doctor_. Please advise me the next time you intend to—"

McCoy didn't reply, nor did he react to having been jostled forward. " _Jim,"_ he said.

Jim looked back at him. "What?"

Spock watched, transfixed, as McCoy reached out and grasped Jim's shoulder, steering him to the right.

"Bones, _what_ —" Jim broke off, evidently catching sight of whatever had the doctor so agitated.

Spock frowned. The small square off the walk path contained nothing remarkable: a handful of small restaurants, a stand selling some sort of refined sugar refreshment, and what looked to be a tailor shop, with a pair of suits hanging in the window behind the emblem of an archaic needle and thread.

Jim's jaw dropped. "Holy shit."

Without further comment, he veered off the path and made a beeline for one of the restaurants. To Spock's eye it was the least aesthetically appealing of all, with a color scheme involving pale blue and cream orange tile, and neon pink signage, in a slanted, looping script.

 _Taqueria Jalisco_ , it read.

Spock quickened his pace to keep up. "What is the nature of this establishment?"

"Sorry?" Jim was already too far ahead to hear him properly over the sound of construction down the street.

Spock clarified: "What is this place?"

"It's a restaurant, Spock," McCoy called over his shoulder with a grin.

" _Evidently_ , Doctor," Spock replied before he could stop himself. "I simply meant that it clearly holds some significance for you two."

Before McCoy could answer, they caught up to Jim at the door, leaning forward to observe a console displaying the restaurant's menu. He scrolled down on the document, squinting at the small print at the end of the page, murmuring to himself:

"Locations…25 South Promenade UFP Starbase 11, 230 Union Street, Santa Cruz, California, Earth…400 Shotwell Street _, San Francisco, California, holy shit, Bones, this is it!_ "

McCoy stepped forward to see for himself. "Well, I'll be damned."

"With respect to what is still unclear to me," Spock said.

Jim turned, and his face lit up in a grin, his eyes dancing with a familiar glint.

"This," he said, "is the best goddamn taqueria you've ever set foot in, Spock."

"I have never set foot in it."

"Ya have now," McCoy said, clapping his shoulder and following Jim inside.

* * *

The restaurant's exterior had done little to recommend it, and the interior did not mitigate the effects. The large room beyond the door was poorly lit and crammed with tables, leaving little space between the chairs. Whoever had chosen the exterior color scheme had adapted it to the inside as well. Spock was unsurprised that it was nearly as empty as outside on the promenade, with three lone figures perched at the bar, and a Terran family at a table on the far side of the room.

Once they were seated at a booth in the corner of the room, Jim explained the significance of the restaurant:

"Bones and I hit up the _Taqueria Jalisco_ in the city all the time when we were cadets. I think it became a finals tradition. Right?" Jim leaned over and nudged McCoy in the ribs with his elbow.

The doctor was leaning into the aisle, trying to flag down a server. "No—it became an I-failed-the-Kobayashi-Maru-let's-get-shitfaced-and-eat-tacos tradition."

"Oh c'mon, we went more than twice _._ How did we find it in the first place, anyways?"

"Christ, Jim, I don't remember."

"It wasn't Gaila, was it?"

"No."

"Helpful, Bones."

"I know it wasn't _Gaila_ ," McCoy huffed, "because you dragged me along when you introduced her to it, and then spent the whole night chugging margaritas and undressing each other with your eyes. All I wanted was some damn guacamole."

"Well, we can remedy that." Jim turned to Spock. "That answer your question?"

Spock merely looked between the two of them. "Fascinating" was the only word that came to mind.

As it turned out, guacamole was one of the few things on the menu he could order, as most of the dishes contained some form of meat. This hardly mattered; he had little appetite. In fact, he had not eaten since the previous day: an irregularity to be sure, even for a Vulcan, but far less dire than if he were fully human.

Jim seemed unable to accept this. Well after the main dishes had already arrived (and halfway through his second tumbler of tequila) he insisted on ordering something vegetarian for the table. This resulted in the server bringing over a large bowl of dark soup, easily a full meal for one individual, human or Vulcan. Spock had already nibbled at the chips and salsa—far too bland for his taste—but ladled out soup for the three of them regardless. To waste it was illogical, now that Jim had already ordered it despite his protests.

It was McCoy who took the first sip. Almost instantly his eyes widened and he coughed, fanning himself with his free hand, eyes watering: "Holy mother of God, that's spicy."

And if past experience were any indicator, Jim's reaction was predictable: "Really? Let me try."

In moments, he too was choking between bouts of laughter. "Oh _Jesus_. Spock, you have to try this. You'll love it."

In the days following, Spock would pinpoint his last clear thought to the moment he placed the first spoonful in his mouth, to find that the soup was surprisingly flavorful. Perhaps he would eat after all. It was only logical: he could not operate without adequate sustenance.

The conversation wound a serpentine path from topic to topic—Jim and McCoy exchanging memories of incidents at the Academy that stretched credulity, becoming more and more difficult to follow as the evening wore on and the noise level in the restaurant climbed. Spock found his thoughts wandering between the soup—he marveled at the fact that it was even on the menu, as it was hardly marketable to anyone with oral receptors more sensitive to spice than Vulcans—and his presence in the restaurant in the first place. It seemed only logical that Jim and McCoy would ask him about that again, if not that night then at some other time. More than once McCoy had glanced over at him, his expression appraising. It was only good planning to have a proper response in mind.

 _I am concerned my relationship with Lieutenant Uhura cannot survive present circumstances. It sometimes seems as if our commitments and goals are irreconcilably different._

The thought bubbled to the forefront of his mind. It was not, strictly speaking, a lie. The word "relationship" had variable definitions, referring to interpersonal connections of all kinds. And their commitments and goals likely _were_ irreconcilably different. Last night had evinced that in short, painful order.

Spock paused in the middle of lifting his spoon to his mouth, realizing that Jim and McCoy were staring at him. He frowned for a moment, opening his mouth to ask what had happened.

It was another moment before he realized he had just voiced his thoughts about Nyota aloud.

He flushed emerald.

Across the table, McCoy was giving him a familiar look that was equal parts annoyance and disbelief. But before he could say anything, Jim leaned abruptly across the table and put a hand on Spock's shoulder.

"Spock."

It was only through sheer power of will that Spock managed not to cringe away. Jim's expression seemed to be wavering somewhere between astonishment and sympathy, and the fact that Spock had invited both with his outburst made them no less discomfiting—

"You _get_ it," Jim said.

Spock blinked. His eyes flicked to McCoy, who was staring at Jim, incredulous. "I thought you didn't want to—" he began.

Jim interrupted him again: "You gotta talk that shit out."

"Captain?" was the only word Spock seemed capable of uttering.

"With Uhura," Jim clarified. "Before you don't have a chance to. I'm serious. This is personal experience, here. Bones gets it, right Bones?"

"Don't you drag me into this," McCoy growled, leaning back in his seat and removing his glass from the table. "I went around that block eight years ago."

"Look," Jim said, "if kids haven't come up yet, you're probably safe."

"We have not discussed the matter," Spock heard himself say, and was promptly horrified. A _second_ lie in as many days.

Jim seemed not to notice. "Well, then you're probably safe." His eyes lit up briefly and he turned back to McCoy. "Hey, Bones. You have a daughter."

"Leave Jojo off the damn table, Jim."

"I'm just making an observation!"

Grateful for an opportunity to duck out of the argument, Spock turned back to his soup, quickly finding that he had an appetite after all.

* * *

 _Thirty minutes later:_

"You okay, buddy?"

Jim's voice was muddled, barely audible over the sound of the restaurant around them, but Spock wasn't sure he could have responded anyways. How to explain it to them? That in days, possibly hours, he would either have to mate or die, that before he did he would be consumed by unthinking animal rage—and that once he was fully in the grip of the _plak tow_ , there was no knowing what he would thought sent a wave of hot, dark fear—yes, _fear_ , he may as well acknowledge it—through his head and chest.

Before him, Jim and McCoy exchanged a concerned glance.

"Spock, you all right?" Now McCoy leaned forward across the table, brow knitted. "You look a little flushed." His eyes darted over Spock's face to his ears, which were still burning. Examining. The thought sent another spike of terror through Spock's gut.

The doctor was at times illogical and petulant, but he was no fool. He would make the connection easily. Spock jerked back and attempted to stand up, forgetting he was seated in a booth. His legs banged into the edge of the table, scattering chips across the plastic tablecloth and slopping liquid from the glasses containing McCoy's wheat beverage and Jim's tequila.

Both Jim and McCoy jumped—evidently his movement had startled them. He needed to remain calm, to keep himself under control, at least until—

Until what?

Nyota was the only person he could even remotely imagine approaching in this state. She knew the risks of _pon farr_ and had stayed with him despite them. But after last night…he could not, _would not_ ask for her help. If he did, he knew, she would agree, and afterward she would never forgive him.

But he could also hardly divert the _Enterprise_ to New Vulcan—could hardly arrive as an unbonded male and expect his mere presence among other Vulcans to solve the problem for him—

Steps. Break the problem into its composite parts—then move forward. Yes. That was the answer.

He needed to get off the starbase. Aboard the starbase he was a danger to civilians and Starfleet personnel alike; aboard the _Enterprise_ he could lock himself in his quarters, could at least be properly restrained, if it came to that.

"I must return to the ship," he said.

Jim and McCoy stared at him.

"What?" McCoy asked.

Of course—they were still surrounded by the din of the restaurant. Surely if he was having trouble understanding them with his Vulcan hearing, _they_ were having trouble understanding him. Spock adjusted his volume accordingly.

" _I must return to the ship_."

Jim flinched and raised both hands in protest. "All right, settle down! We heard you the first time!"

Spock was already stumbling out of the booth, narrowly avoiding crashing into another patron. ( _When had the restaurant become so crowded?)_ He felt lightheaded, unsteady. When he was finally upright in the space between the booth and the tables, he tried and failed to take a step toward the door, pitching to his left and catching himself against the wall—

—then a firm hand was gripping his upper arm and somewhere in the distance, McCoy was speaking: "Something's wrong. I'll take him to Medbay."

Spock craned his neck to see Jim nodding. "You go, I'll take care of this."

As McCoy led him out the door, Spock caught another glimpse of Jim, calling after a server and gesturing at the guacamole.

"Can we get this to go?"

* * *

The ship was painfully bright compared to the dim restaurant and the promenade. The high walls of the corridor between the transporter room and the Medbay blurring as he stumbled along in McCoy's grip.

How many times had he walked these halls unencumbered, unassisted? That loss was thrown into stark relief, now that his mind was swimming with unregulated emotion, his skin feverish and uncomfortable—

Instructions. McCoy did not understand, had no idea the danger he was in, the danger the crew was in. The mere notion of explaining why made Spock flush with humiliation. No. He needed to be isolated, but McCoy need not know why. At least not until he could formulate more of a plan.

"Doctor, I must go to my quarters." The words felt like marbles in his mouth.

McCoy scoffed. "Pull the other one, Spock."

An illogical response—likely idiomatic—but clearly a dismissal. Panic blossomed in his chest. "You do not understand."

"No, I don't. Do you?"

"I must be isolated."

"Jesus Christ, Spock, I'm just gonna run some tests to make sure you're not dying. Then you can go hermit up all you want."

 _Hermit up…?_ Another expression in Standard he could hardly remember. Had Nyota explained it to him?

"Doctor, I must request that you speak more plainly."

McCoy gave an exasperated sigh. "Just come on."

A pair of doors parted before them, a flash of a white caduceus, and suddenly he was sitting on a biobed. A medical tricorder appeared out of his periphery and he flinched back.

"Hold still," McCoy growled.

"Doctor, I must reiterate how vital it is that I return to my quarters imme—"

"I said hold still, dammit."

Spock leaned back further and nearly fell off the biobed. There was a hand on his shoulder now, keeping him in place.

The Medbay doors hissed open again and Spock turned to see Jim standing there, a plastic bag in one hand, a concerned look on his face. "What's going on?" he asked.

Directed to McCoy, not to him.

"Not sure yet," came the doctor's gruff reply.

"Anything we should be worried about?"

"I said I'm not sure yet, Jim."

 _Jim._ That was the answer. Jim would listen to him. He clearly understood the value of personal privacy; he would understand if Spock insisted he needed to go to New Vulcan, he would go to New Vulcan. That was the problem with McCoy: he was too good at his job. Too insistent on the well-being of his patients, to the point that he failed to listen to the patients themselves.

"Captain," Spock interjected, "I must return to my quarters."

"Let Bones run his tests first, ok?"

Spock felt his heart sink. He was slipping, he could feel that even now. Time was short—but he could no more bring himself to say the words _pon farr_ than he could stand up and leave the Medbay unassisted.

A light—bright and blinding, even more so than the lights in the corridor—in one eye, then the other.

"Hmph."

Jim, to his left: "What?"

There was a finger in his periphery now instead of a tricorder. Spock glanced to his right and found McCoy pointing at him but not looking at him, moving away from them. "Keep him here."

"What are you gonna do?" Jim demanded.

The doctor's mouth was a grim line. "I gotta make a call."

* * *

Jim's voice, somewhere above his head: "Do you know what's happening here?"

Across the room, Doctor McCoy was a blurry outline moving toward them from the back of the room. "I think so," he replied grimly.

For the last several (five? ten?) minutes, there had been shouting coming from his office. This in and of itself was hardly unusual, of course. McCoy seemed to exist in a state of semi-permanent irritation.

"Doctor," Spock said again, "I assure you the longer I remain here the greater the risk to the rest of the—"

The hypospray took him by surprise. He jerked back, his hand flying to the side of his neck, heat flooding his face.

"What have you—"

Spock broke off.

McCoy's outline was less blurry than it had been only minutes before. Lines and edges were becoming more defined. He could see the chronometer on the far wall, reading _2354_ —and realized he could hear the low hum of the ship again, present beneath the sounds of McCoy removing from the hypo and discarding the cartridge of—of whatever he had just injected into Spock's bloodstream.

He blinked. The anger he had felt only moments before seemed to be bleeding slowly out of his system, replaced only with confusion.

"What…what did you…"

The doctor turned to him with a grim smile. "Nothing special, Spock. Just your standard synthenol treatment. Sobered ya right up."

Spock stared at him.

To his left, Jim moved toward the other biobed and put down the plastic bag he'd been holding, voicing Spock's thoughts for him: " _Sobered?_ You mean he was—"

"Drunk? Yeah. Off your ass, Spock."

Something was tugging at the corner of McCoy's mouth—a smirk, Spock realized. The doctor was smirking at him.

"On _what_?" Jim demanded.

 _The soup._

Both Jim and McCoy turned to him, and Spock realized he had voiced that thought aloud as well.

McCoy nodded. "Yeah. It was molé-based. Might as well have been a pitcher of tequila."

The word was unfamiliar to him. "Molé?"

"Unsweetened chocolate powder," McCoy clarified. "Probably couldn't taste it through all that spice."

Now Jim was grinning at him. "Shit, Spock." He glanced at McCoy. "This is a first, isn't it?"

"You know, Jim, I think it is." He turned to Spock. "Oh, and just so you're prepared, one of the unfortunate things about the hypo treatment is that it doesn't save you from the hangover. Sobering up that fast actually just makes it hit ya that much harder and faster, so…"

As if prompted by the doctor's description, a wave of nausea swept through him. Spock leaned forward, pressing a hand over his mouth. The headache hit him next, and he squeezed his eyes shut, suppressing a groan. Whereas in the restaurant, sound had been muddled and confusing, everything was now _much_ too sharp, and much too loud.

Leaning against the other biobed, Jim crowed: "Baby's first hangover!"

Spock pressed the heel of his hand to his forehead and ground out a response. "Gentlemen, I believe I will recover in my quarters."

McCoy appeared at his elbow, holding up a second hypospray. "Hell, Spock, what kind of asshole do you take me for?"

Spock allowed him to administer the analgesic, and slowly the pain began to ebb away.

"Now what the hell was all that nonsense about locking yourself in your quarters?" McCoy demanded.

Spock paused for a long moment before he answered, formulating his response before he spoke. "Evidently a lack of…clear thinking," he said finally. "I was unaware of my own inebriation."

A look passed between Jim and McCoy, but neither pressed the point.

"Happens to the best of us," Jim said.

"Indeed." Spock rose.

Jim's face fell. "You're still leaving?" He glanced at McCoy with a frown. "Not you too!"

"It's midnight, Jim." McCoy gestured at the chronometer.

Jim placed his hands on his hips. "You two are a couple of little old ladies. C'mon, I still have half a bucket of guac here, and I'm not gonna finish it by myself."

"Jim—" McCoy began.

As the captain and ship's surgeon began to bicker back and forth, Spock began making his way to the exit. He was halfway there when he remembered his quarters would be cold—and empty.

"One card game," Jim was saying.

Spock paused, then turned to face the room. "One game?"

Jim's hands were spread in conciliation. He sent Spock a grin.

Across the room, the doctor's brow had knitted thoughtfully. He glanced in Spock's direction. "You ever played cutthroat hearts, Spock?"

Metaphorically, perhaps. Spock pushed the thought from his mind.

"I am unfamiliar with the game, Doctor."

McCoy chuckled. "Oh, good. We'll play for money, then."

* * *

At 0300 hours, pleasantly tired and a handful of credits richer, Spock finally left the rec room, noting the soft glow from the overhead lights as he walked through the corridors. To provide grounding for the crew over the course of the deep space mission, the ship's lighting was adjusted to maintain the illusion of solar and lunar cycles of a regular Terran day. At this hour, except during the rare crisis that required all hands on deck, Spock rarely ventured outside his quarters to see it. There was something oddly calming about it. Perhaps the notion of being awake when no one else was, when no one required his attention. When he could think, uninhibited by distraction.

Therein lay the problem.

All at once, the thought of his empty bed flashed across his mind, leaving him punctured and deflated. He paused before the turbolift, then turned and walked instead in the direction of the botanical lab.

Years ago, during the shakedown cruise, Lieutenant Sulu had petitioned to redesign the lab so that it more closely resembled a public greenhouse, outfitting the space with benches and a narrow walk path. At the time Spock had resisted the idea, conceding only when Jim had proposed dividing the space into two parts: the greenhouse and the closed lab, where the ship's botanists could research potentially more hazardous plant species without exposure to the general crew.

When the greenhouse doors slid open before him, they enveloped him in air that was heady and warm. He located a bench opposite a display of succulents from various planets: some Terran, some varieties from their recent planetary surveys. Some Vulcan.

He sat for a long time before coming to a decision.

It saddened him. In the odd clarity of the silent, early morning, he could admit that to himself. At the very least, the emotion was transient, controllable. It would fade with time, finally detached from memory-memories he would retain regardless. Memories of the ship. Memories of Nyota. And…

He rose, mouth quirking at the thought.

The memory of Jim, McCoy, and _Taqueria Jalisco_.

* * *

 **A/N** : It's probably not a surprise that the idea for this chapter came well after I had already written the other two. For the longest time, I had no idea what I was going to do for Spock's portion of the story. And even when I did, his angst demanded so much more than I realized it was going to. (What can I say? He's an angsty guy.)

In any case, I hope you've had as much fun with this story as I've had writing it. I look forward to posting some more stuff in the next couple of weeks here—if you're interested, stay tuned. As always, thank you for reading.

The title of this chapter (and the previous chapter) is lovingly pilfered from Cards Against Humanity.


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